


Intimacy

by eiluned



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Control, Control Issues, Developing Relationship, Dominance, F/M, Fight Sex, Intimacy, Sexuality, Sparring, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiluned/pseuds/eiluned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's always in control, but maybe she needs to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the sex in this fic could be triggery for dubious consent. There is absolutely no nonconsensual sex or coercion in this story, but there is rough sex during which Natasha feels conflicted about her emotions. However, she wants it and explicitly consents to it, but just in case, read with caution if dub-con triggers you.
> 
> Enormous thanks to the Hive Mind for help with this fic, particularly Bees for walking through particularly dicey bits with me to make sure they weren't too dicey. I love you girls!

_“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”  
― F. Scott Fitzgerald,_ This Side of Paradise

* * *

Natasha likes sex very much. She just doesn't like intimacy.

Intimacy means opening herself up to another person, letting them get close enough to her that they could hurt her, and that's the complete opposite of everything she's ever been trained for.

She likes the feel of a cock inside of her, and she likes the way a man moans when she makes him lose control. She enjoys it, enjoys the power she has over him, the control over his pleasure, but she always kicks him out afterward and takes care of herself. She needs all of that control in her own hands, and she's never wanted to come during sex itself. She just stores away the sensations, the faceless pleasure of pinning a man down, the dominant surge of arousal, and saves her own release for the quiet dark of her own room.

But then Clint insinuates himself into her life.

It's a few years before they have sex. He's gentlemanly with her, which amuses her to no end. He hits on anyone attractive, but with her, he keeps a polite distance. That isn't to say he doesn't flirt with her, tease her, make her actually like him as opposed to just tolerating his presence in her life, because he does all of that and more. She knows he wants her because she's trained to know things like that. But he respects her, which is a refreshing change.

And of course she's attracted to him. She would have to be dead to not be attracted to him. He's handsome in a rugged sort of way, and she likes the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He has very nice arms and solid hands, and he looks pretty damn good with his shirt off.

She thinks maybe she wanted him from the first time she set eyes on him. The fact that he had a gun trained on her actually helped with the attraction rather than hindering it, because she likes danger. She's an adrenaline junkie. She likes the idea of fucking a man who could give her a real run for her money.

* * *

They fuck for the first time after a rough mission in Nicaragua, three years after he helped her defect from Russia and the Red Room.

They're waiting for evac in a Managua hotel, one that's actually decent for once. Neither of them is hurt beyond a few bruises and scratches, but it was a close thing. Clint's perfect aim and her reflexes were the only things that kept them from getting killed, and the adrenaline is still humming in her system even after she gets herself off in the shower.

She's in her bra and panties, sitting on one of the two double beds, when he comes out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist and steam curling around his body, and she _wants_ him. He knows it, too; she can see it in the sudden heat in his eyes, the way he turns his body away from hers like that would actually hide his reaction to finding her nearly naked.

A flick of her wrist behind her back and her bra falls to her lap. "Jesus, Natasha," he says, his voice rough, and she knows he likes what he's seeing; she watches him, knows he's attracted to big breasts, and she knows he likes hers. She's caught him taking surreptitious looks in the past--not leering, just admiring.

"Come here," she says.

He balks, though, putting a hand on the edge of the dresser and leaning onto it, looking like he's trying to think of what to say to make sure she really wants this. So she gets up from the bed, tossing her bra onto a chair, and slips between him and the dresser, letting her breasts brush against his bare chest. He's hard, erection tenting the towel, and god, she wants him.

"I want to fuck you," she says, and he groans.

"Are you sure?" he asks, low and a little desperate.

Giving him a little smile, she slides her fingers under the edge of the towel at his waist, tugging at where he has it tucked so that the damp terrycloth slips down to puddle on the floor at his feet. "I wouldn't have said so if I wasn't sure," she answers, letting her hands linger on the warm skin of his hips.

His hands are in her hair, and before she has a chance to react, he's kissing her. She's not big on kissing—too intimate—but she quickly realizes that she doesn't want him to stop. He kisses her like he's been dreaming of doing it for three years and spent all that time imagining the best ways to make her knees go weak.

She lets him steer her back to the bed, lets him manhandle her a little bit because it's turning him on, and she realizes that she likes this, too, letting him think he has a little control. He cups her breasts with both hands and buries his face in her cleavage, licking and sucking at her nipples until she's shivering underneath him.

It's dangerous territory, and she can already feel liquid heat building low in her body. So she flips him onto his back, leaning over to snag a condom out of her bag. He watches as she rolls it onto him, his eyes a little glassy, and he lets her pin him to the bed, lets her straddle his hips with his hands held above his head.

She closes her eyes when she sinks down onto him, but she knows he's watching her. She can feel his gaze like a physical thing, brushing up against her skin, penetrating her defenses the same way his cock is penetrating her body.

Her mouth falls open on a moan at the sweet stretch, and _god_ he feels so good. He's warm and solid underneath her, his cock thick and hot inside of her.

"Oh god, Tasha," he groans, rocking his hips up, trying to get her to move.

She leans down and bites his bottom lip, enjoying the way he sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden pain, and then she starts fucking him.

It's hard and fast, and she knows he wants more. No matter how much she likes him, she doesn't want that from him. She doesn't want that from anyone but herself. So she keeps him pinned to the mattress and rides him hard, swallowing his gasps and moans, bouncing on him until his body stiffens, his hands clenching into fists, and he curses gutturally, his hips bucking up against hers.

When he's done, she climbs off of him and goes to take a second shower. She's thinking about him when she makes herself come, the way his body flexed underneath hers, the way he felt inside her, and the look on his face when he came, and that scares her a little.

She shakes it off.

* * *

They fuck semi-regularly after that, when the urge is strong or the adrenaline is running hot. In Tashkent, he has to help her into their safe house; she sprained her ankle dropping down from a roof, and she's angry about her carelessness and because she needs his help. She doesn't like having to rely on him for anything, much less something as trivial as walking.

A little part of her is beginning to realize that she relies on him more than she thinks she does.

"Need help with your boots?" he asks, his voice neutral.

No pity. She appreciates that he understands her. "Please," she says, holding onto his forearms as she lowers herself onto the sofa.

He unbuckles the boot on her good foot first, tugging it off and dropping it to the side. He's more careful with the boot on her sprained ankle, easing it off of her foot and then stripping off her sock so he can examine her ankle.

"Not bad," he says. "Knowing you, it'll be healed up in a couple of days."

"Mmph," she grunts, flexing her foot and wincing a little. "I just want a bath. I'll wrap it afterward."

He doesn't ask if she needs help getting into the bathroom. He just holds out his hands and waits for her to pull herself up. It isn't so much a matter of pride anymore for Natasha; she tells herself it's practicality that makes her slip her hands into his, but she also knows it's about comfort, too. She likes his touch.

In the bathroom, she props herself up on the chipped tile counter, trying to keep her weight off of her sore ankle. Clint doesn't ask again; he just unzips her suit and tugs it down her shoulders, helping her step out of it. She unhooks her bra and tosses it on top of the suit, and there's suddenly something thrumming in the air between them.

He's kneeling at her feet, gazing up at her like he wants to swallow her whole, and despite being sore and sweaty and tired, she's blazing with want.

She reaches down to grab his collar, intending to pull him to his feet, but he catches her hands, moves them to grip the edge of the counter. When he lifts her injured foot off of the ground, she knows what he wants to do, and she's suddenly at war with herself because she _wants_ it even though it terrifies her.

"Can I do this for you, Tasha?" he murmurs, brushing his nose against her hipbone.

She knows she should say no. She's never let anyone do that to her... but Clint wants to do it _for_ her, and that makes all the difference.

She nods.

The first touch of his tongue makes her whole body tense, and he strokes her thigh, giving her a little smile that makes her heart jump into her throat. "Relax," he whispers, and he presses his mouth against her again.

She isn't sure she likes it; it's too intimate, and there are too many sensations mixed up together. His tongue slips between her folds, laving at her clit, and her hips tilt into it even as she wants to pull away.

But he moves closer to her on his knees, closing his eyes and humming his pleasure like he's never tasted anything better than her, and the next pass of his tongue over her clit makes her toes curl.

He works her until she's shuddering, clinging to the counter and whimpering, squirming against his mouth. She feels heavy, swollen, and when he sucks on her clit, she yelps, yanking at his hair to make him stop because she's right on the edge, and she is not going to let him push her over. She can let him go down on her, but she can't give him what he wants. She can't open up that much.

He knows her well enough by now to know how she wants it. He's on his feet, unzipping his pants, and she's fumbling for a condom in her toiletry bag. He plucks it out of her trembling hand and rolls it on, and then he's turning her around, bending her over the counter.

It wrenches a gasp from her throat when he pushes inside of her, and she grips the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles turn white. He fucks her hard and fast, driving into her over and over until she's sure she's going to lose her mind, until she's clinging to control by her fingernails, desperate not to come.

He grips her hip hard with one hand, hard enough that she'll probably have more bruises, and the edge of the counter with the other, burying his face in her hair. The way he groans her name when he comes makes something twist deep inside of her, a shudder that threatens to overwhelm her.

She barely has time to push him out of the bathroom and slam the door before she's coming, the orgasm so powerful that it drops her to her knees, hand working furiously between her legs and her forehead pressed against the door. She's fixated on the memory of his mouth between her legs, his tongue inside of her, the expression on his face when he looked up at her. She knows she's making too much noise, that he can hear her through the door, but she can't control it, can't even begin to make herself stop gasping.

When it finally banks, she's left in a trembling heap on the cold tile. She turns on the shower when she's sure her legs will support her, and she tries not to think about Clint as she stands under the lukewarm spray.

* * *

A few weeks pass and neither of them mention what happened in Tashkent. She felt Clint's eyes on her when she finally emerged from the bathroom, but she didn't look at him; she just dressed and fell into her bed, exhausted from the fight and the fucking. Their evac arrived a few hours later, and back in New York, she loses herself in a whirl of paperwork and training.

She's in the gym one evening, practicing strikes against a punching bag, and she knows when he comes through the door behind her.  She can tell from the sound of the footfalls that it's Clint; he shuffles his feet the tiniest bit when he's not in stealth mode, as if he can't be bothered to walk purposefully when it's not enforced upon him.

"Busy?" he says as she ducks and drives her elbow into the bag.

He's leaning against the wall when she tosses a glance over her shoulder, arms crossed over his bare chest, and he's a little sweaty, like he's been running.  "A little bit," she replies shortly.

Just seeing him makes her body go hot, and she hates that.  She hates that he has that effect on her, that she can't separate their professional relationship and... whatever it is they are when they're fucking the adrenaline out of their systems.  They're in HQ, for god's sake, and she wants to throw him down on the mats and use his body to bring herself off.

"Spar with me," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that she's not used to hearing.

Holding the bag steady, she looks at him for a moment, trying to read his mood.  He’s stony-faced, his mouth set in a downward-curving line, and she can tell that he’s unhappy.  It makes her feel strange to know that he’s upset with her, a sinking feeling in her gut, and it’s foreign.  She doesn’t like it, wants to make it go away, but she doesn’t know how.

“Fine,” she says, pushing away from the bag.

Clint isn’t a particularly large man; he’s of average height and his build is on the slight side when compared to some of the other agents in S.H.I.E.L.D.  He’s a bit stocky, though, muscular when he’s been working out a lot, so you wouldn’t immediately think that he would be quick on his feet.

That’s something that he uses to his advantage, and though Natasha knows him well, he still catches her off guard when he suddenly darts forward, putting his shoulder in her midsection and taking her down to the mat.

“Fuck!” she grunts, wrapping her legs around his ribs and using her core muscles to flip him sideways, rolling up onto him and scrambling away.

He comes up into a crouch, looking for all the world like a lion stalking its prey, and they go around in circles, trying various grabs and holds to take the other out without much success.  They know each other’s bodies too well, know each other’s moves and tells, can read telegraphed moves that even the best fighters in the world wouldn’t notice.

He blocks her when she comes at him for a scissor legs takedown, and she ends up on her back on the mat again.  It’s pissing her off, because she’s usually the better of their pair at hand-to-hand combat, and he’s already taken her down twice in five minutes. She rolls onto her stomach, managing to get her hands and feet underneath her before he grabs her around the waist, trying to force her down again with his greater weight. His breath is hot and harsh against her ear, and the feel of his body against hers makes her hot again.

Bracing her hands against the mat, she pushes off from the ground hard with both feet, flipping him over her back.  Luckily he knows to tuck his head and roll because she’s broken men’s necks with that move.  Clint takes the impact on his upper back and hits the mat hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

She moves to pin him, but he catches her ankle, taking her down across his stomach, and he sits up, dragging her underneath him.  This isn’t even sparring anymore; it’s a straight-up fight for dominance, a dirty fight.  He pulls her hair and she bites whatever part of him she can reach, and she knows they’re both going to be bruised up from this, but it feels so good.  She loves the danger of it, loves knowing that if she makes the wrong move, he’s going to get the better of her.

She kicks him in the gut when she manages to free her legs from his grip, and he launches himself at her.  This time he has gotten the better of her because she doesn’t have time to recover from her kick, and he pins her to the mat, hands on her wrists and his knees outside of her thighs, feet hooked over her thighs.

Struggling against his grip on her hands, she lets him get complacent with his hold for just a second, until he’s looking down at her with an expression of triumph.  And then she plants her feet against the mat and pushes hard, flipping him over her head onto his back.

This time she manages to scramble onto him fast enough, turning him onto his stomach and pinning his arms behind his back with her weight pressing down on his thighs.  He struggles for a second, trying to push her off, but she’s got him, and it makes her bare her teeth in satisfaction.

“You fucking like this, don’t you?” he pants against the mat, fighting her grip on his arms.

“What?”

“You like this, having me pinned.  Having complete control,” he says, and his voice is bitter. “You can’t stand to let go of any of that, can you, Natasha?  You can’t trust me enough to let go.”

She lets him go, falling backward onto her ass in her haste to get away from him.  He can read her, has always been able to read her better than anyone else she’d ever met, but hearing him say this aloud...

He’s cut through all of her armor, everything she’s built up since they met to keep him out of her head.  He rolls over and pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking at her the same way he did in Tashkent after she pushed him away.

She doesn’t answer him.  She gets to her feet and leaves the gym, leaves him sitting there staring after her with words she can’t say hanging in the air between them.

* * *

The more she thinks about what he said, the more it rankles her.  He knows her.  He should know that she trusts him, and he should know not to push her.  He should trust her, dammit, and she stalks to his quarters to tell him that.

But she doesn’t have a chance to tell him that, because when he opens the door, he grabs her wrist and yanks her inside, pushing her up against the door to slam it shut.

She tries to shove at him, but it’s a half-hearted effort at best.  She takes his mouth in a searing kiss, digs her nails into his shoulders, lets him yank her shirt over her head, lets him steer her into his bedroom because she’s angry and guilty and still thrumming with adrenaline, and she wants him so, so much.

He tries to go down on her when he strips off her pants, but she stops him, grabs the front of his shirt and pushes him away, yanking it over his head in the same move. He catches her hips and pushes her until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She can't catch herself; she falls and he's on her, pulling her panties down her legs, and she's practically vibrating with tension in the second that she watches his mouth descend toward her cunt. Her body clenches at the memory of his tongue between her legs, fills to overflowing with liquid heat, but she can't let him do that again.

Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she yanks his head up so she can look him right in the eye. "Stop," she hisses, and even though he's furious, he backs off, pushes himself to his feet and shoves his hand back through his hair.

"So what, Natasha?" he says harshly. "You trust me in a firefight but you won't trust me with this? You'll fuck me but you can't lose control with me? That's bullshit. I think you don't trust me at all."

Those words cut deep, gouging into her and making her bleed. He knows her weaknesses, knows exactly where to stab to hurt her the most, and she hates that she's let him get so close that he can read her so well. Her throat is suddenly tight, her eyes stinging, and getting to her feet, she lashes out at him, the palm of her hand connecting sharply with his cheek.

Shock washes across his expression, followed swiftly by hot anger. He catches her wrist in his grip before she can draw back for another hit, and she turns his grip against him, catching him off balance. Putting her foot against his ankle, she spins him and he goes down hard on the bed, the impact knocking the breath out of him. He's on his back, so it's easy for her to pounce on top of him, and she isn't sure whether she wants to beat the hell out of him or fuck him until he can't walk.

She doesn't think it matters which.

His mouth crashes against hers, a kiss so hard that it hurts a little, and her guard slips just long enough for him to reverse their positions, flipping her onto her back and pinning her underneath his weight. For a second, she contemplates stopping him, pushing him away and stalking out of his room. He would stop if she did that; she knows him well enough to know that.

But he's hot and nearly naked on top of her, and she hates him and wants him so fucking much. "Fuck you," she growls, anger and lust merging into something blindingly hot, clenching her fists and fighting against his grip.

He shoves down on her arms, shaking her, and bares his teeth at her for a second before dropping all of his weight onto her body and plundering her mouth. She's trapped, and it makes her feel panicky even as she arches up against him, desperate for more. His hands are like steel bands around her wrists, and when she tries to slip his hold, his grip tightens painfully.

"Do it," she taunts when he breaks away to gasp in a breath. "C'mon, prove you can take me down."

Switching his grip to hold both of her wrists in one hand, he reaches down between their bodies. She thinks he's going to push down his pants until his blunt, callused fingers slip between her thighs, rubbing almost harshly against her clit.

The sensation wrenches a cry from her throat, and she squeezes her legs together, whether to make him stop or encourage him she wasn't sure. He ignores it, thrusting two fingers into her cunt and rubbing at her with the heel of his hand, all the while holding her down and staring her right in the face, daring her to let go of her control.

"Fuck... Fuck you!" she moans, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood because the little pain is the only thing that's keeping her sane.

He smirks and crooks his fingers inside of her, and the change in sensation ramps up the pleasure until she's sure she's going to lose her mind. But right as she's about to give up, to let go, he stops, pulls his fingers free.

She curses viciously at him, to which his only answer is a cruel laugh. He shoves his pants down now and kicks them off, rubbing his hard cock against her stomach. Leaning down, he licks her bottom lip. "I want to fuck you until you scream for me," he breathes, and she can't help the shudder that wracks her body at those words.

Spreading her legs with his knee, he lifts one up over his hip and presses right up against her. "If you want me to get a condom, you have to promise not to beat my ass when I let you go," he warns.

But she's too impatient, her blood running too hot to wait for that, and she won't get pregnant anyway. "Just do it," she snarls, flexing her hips so that the tip of him dips into the wetness of her cunt. "Fuck me, Barton."

His anger slips for just a second, and there's something startling in his face, something she doesn't want to read, doesn't want to know. The expression slips away when he pushes inside of her, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He's hot and thick inside of her, so much hotter than when they've fucked before, and a sound slips out of her, something close to a whimper. She bites her lip and clenches her eyes shut, fingernails digging into her palms as he slowly works his way into her.

"Oh fuck," he groans. "You feel so goddamn good."

He starts fucking her then, steady, even thrusts that drag a whine out of her throat. She wants to break free of his hold, wants to roll him onto his back and hold him down, fuck him until he's whimpering, but he's heavier than her, stronger in this position, and deep down inside, in a place that she keeps locked up tight, she wants to be under his control.

His thrusts get harder, faster, and soon he's pounding into her, panting with exertion and groaning his pleasure. When he lets go of her wrists, she grabs his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin, and he hisses a curse at her. She wraps both of her legs around his ribs, forcing him even deeper inside of her, and she writhes underneath him, unable to choke back her cries.

He hitches her legs up over his arms, tilting her hips just right so that her breath catches in her throat on the next thrust. It's good; it's so good, and she's never been fucked like this before. She's always done the fucking, always been in control, and she knows she's treading on dangerous ground letting him do this to her. But it feels so fucking good, and she doesn't want him to stop.

Leaning down, he presses her thighs against her body and kisses her, hard and aggressive, and it's so good that she can hardly stand it.

And quite suddenly, she's coming, body spasming underneath his, crying out against his mouth. It's overwhelming; she doesn't think she's ever come this hard, and her body feels like it's going to shake apart. The only thing holding her together is his grip on her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his lips against hers.

His thrusts stutter and he shouts, and she dimly realizes that he's coming with her. It sends a shock through her body to feel his cock jerking and pulsing. Wet, lingering warmth floods her, and she shudders one last time before her orgasm banks, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath.

Her mind is still flickering in and out, her body still trembling underneath his even as he lets go of her leg so that it falls and drapes over his hip, and she's trying to breathe her way through the panic that's hovering at the edge of her consciousness. It's too much, too intimate to lay here underneath him, feeling his cock still throbbing inside, to know that he made her come that hard and that deep down inside, she _wanted_ it.

Shifting his weight to one arm, he lifts a shaking hand and smooths back her hair, letting his fingers brush across her cheek as he looks down at her, and that panic bursts loose from its cage.

She shoves him off of her and scrambles out of his bed, stepping into her clothes and steadfastly ignoring him. "Natasha, wait--" he says, coming off of the bed and reaching out to her, but she dodges his grasp, bolting out of his quarters.

People give her concerned glances as she stalks past them, and she knows she looks a mess, but she's the Black Widow so they say nothing, just move out of her way. She locks herself in her quarters, setting the door to not let anyone else in (because she knows Clint well enough to know that he'll try to follow her and make things right), and then she strips off her clothes, collapsing on her bed.

She can smell him on her body, the scent of his sweat and skin soaked into hers, and when she slips her hand between her thighs, out of habit or insanity at the scent of him on her body, her fingers find wetness. She pulls her hand back and sees his semen on her fingertips, and it sends another jolt through her, brings that fire roaring back to life. She can't parse what she's feeling; she's still panicked but the memory of coming underneath him makes her flush with heat and desire. She wants him like that over and over, and she has no idea how to deal with that. She's confused and anxious, and she has no idea what she should do.

When she opens her eyes, she sees the little _maneki-neko_ he bought her when they were on a mission in Osaka. It waves at her from its perch on her dresser, its eyes scrunched in a kitty smile, and a laugh chokes her at the sight of the stupid thing. She can't escape him; everywhere she turns she sees something that makes her think of him, and when she breathes, his scent overwhelms her.

Before she can think about it, her hand is working her too-tender flesh until she comes again, Clint inside her body, on her skin, embedded so deeply in her that even her solitary release can't wash it away.

She takes a shower and packs a bag.

* * *

It's a week before she comes back. She sent Coulson an email telling him she was taking a vacation, and he obviously knew something was up because he didn't argue with her or point out that she hadn't taken a vacation at all since she'd been with S.H.I.E.L.D. She isn't even really sure where she went; she didn't care, just needed space to breathe.

And she breathed. She stayed in crappy roadside motels and drove until she needed to fill up the gas tank, and she thought in that silence.

Clint's expression when she knocks is fascinating, she thinks in a detached sort of way. He's relieved and shocked and angry and hurt, all of it swirling together in his expressive face, and she realizes that he only ever lets her see how expressive he can be. It makes her chest ache a little to realize it.

After a second, he walks away, back into his quarters, and she decides to take that as an invitation to come in.

That silence thickens to suffocating as she closes the door and sits on his little couch, but she doesn't know how to breach it. She knows the conclusion she finally came to while driving through the mountains in upstate New York, but actually putting those thoughts into words seems like a monumental task, too much for her to handle.

His hand slapping down onto the bar counter startles her, and she looks up to find him staring at her, his mouth set into a harsh line. "Well?" he says, his voice rusty like he hasn't been using it much. "You're just going to come in here after you've been gone for a damn week, and you're not going to say anything? Jesus, Natasha."

"I don't owe you any explanations," she snaps reflexively; it rankles her to think that she should be tied down, should have to tell him where she's going and what she's doing, that he feels entitled to some part of her, and her anger flares back up.

"Yes, you fucking do," he snarls, his hands curling into fists. "You're my goddamn partner, Natasha. You're my best friend! You can't just disappear on me, goddammit."

That stings, and she finds that she can't meet his eyes, isn't prepared to deal with the hurt she sees there. "I'm sorry," she says haltingly, grudgingly.

"Yeah, you should be," he snaps back. "You scared the shit out of me. You just... fucking disappeared and--"

He stops talking for a second so he can collect himself, make himself calm down, and she recognizes that he's even angrier than she thought at first. When he speaks again, his voice is deadly quiet. "You just left, Natasha," he says, and she realizes that it's not just anger; she hurt him badly, and that makes her stomach drop. "I'd like it if you'd tell me why. Or why you came back. Either one."

She stops to take a deep breath, to collect herself and to put her thoughts in order, to push away the panic that still lingers at the thought of letting go. "I need to explain," she says softly, and those words undermine the dam that held her secrets back.

She spills herself out to him, how she's changed so much since he spared her life but how she can't let go of the things that happened to her before (she feels like it should be capitalized, Before, because her life, _her_ life began when she took his hand and left that old life behind), how she can't let others control her, and how even though she trusts him, she really does, more than she's ever trusted anyone but herself, she's still terrified of letting go; it's as if she's standing on the edge of a cliff and can't know that the water below is deep enough to catch her without breaking her apart.

Her head has dropped down to rest on her hands, and even though she knows that he's moved to sit in front of her on the floor, she can't look at him. She's raw, like an open wound, and she feels the need to curl in on herself, to protect her heart. She's hurting, and she hurt him, and all of this is more complex than any emotion she's ever had to deal with.

It's quiet again for a long moment, suffocating again but it's a different kind of suffocation than before. Before she was afraid to speak. Now she's afraid that she's said too much and even worse, she's afraid that he'll reject her even after she spilled her guts, that he's still angry with her, that her fear of intimacy, her fear of trusting _him_ with that intimacy, has irreparably damaged their partnership and their friendship.

That thought terrifies her more than anything else.

She cares about him more than she knows how to deal with. He's more than her partner or just her friend; best friend should sound trite to her, but she's never let anyone get this close to her, and losing him would be like having half of her heart cut away.

It doesn't escape her that she thinks of him as part of her heart. She doesn't know what to call that emotion, but a word lurks around the edge of her mind, a word that intimidates her more than nearly anything else.

"Tasha," he says, but she's frozen, paralyzed by uncertainty, and even though she hates feeling uncertain, hates being afraid, she can't force herself to look up and risk having her heart broken.

But he doesn't let her hide inside of herself. His hand is warm against her cheek, and she shivers with the memory of the last time he touched her like that, her eyes stinging with regret for how she reacted to that touch.

"Look at me," he says quietly. "Please."

His finger gently hooks underneath her chin and lifts her face, and she's grateful for the push; it breaks her out of her stasis. His expression is different now, still aching with pain but not angry anymore, and when she blinks she's ashamed to feel tears spilling over her eyelashes and down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, trying to wipe her face. "I'm sorry, Clint."

"Shh," he whispers, bumping her hands out of the way so he can brush away her tears with his thumbs. "I know. I know."

She catches hold of his wrists, looking at him hard as if she can make him understand her with just the force of thought. But instead of saying anything more, he tugs her forward, pressing his lips against hers so tenderly that it makes her breath catch in her throat. Her instincts are screaming at her that this is dangerous, how he makes her feel is dangerous, but for once, she thinks her instincts are wrong.

She lets him kiss her because it feels good. She lets him kiss her because she wants him.

When he finally breaks away, pressing his lips together, she strokes her hands down his forearms, feeling the muscles shift under his skin. "I'm sorry that I hurt you," she says, shaking her head when he tries to interrupt. "I don't want to hurt you. I just... don't know how to let go."

His brow furrows, and he tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I want to do this for you," he says. "I want to make you feel the way you make me feel, but you won’t let me, Tasha, and... I don’t know what to do. What can we do?"

She takes a deep breath, tries to let go of her fear, tries to convince herself that she wants to let go, it's safe to let go. "I need... I don't know. I need to make myself let go," she says.

"Tash, I shouldn't have pushed you," he interrupts, and she can tell he's mentally castigating himself, as if her inability to trust is his fault or his responsibility.

"Stop," she says. "You pushed because... you want me. You want more of me than I've been willing to share. But I spent the last week thinking and... analyzing myself, and I think that I've been wary of letting that last bit of myself go because I didn't want to leave myself open. It didn't matter how much I trusted you with everything else in my life. I couldn't allow myself to be that vulnerable, but..."

He takes her hands in his as she trails off, looking up at her with his mouth set in a thoughtful frown. "But?" he prompts gently.

"But," she sighs, closing her eyes for a second and pushing past the anxiety that's held her back. "But I'm tired. Of being alone, of walling myself off. Of being... afraid of getting hurt. I'm tired of pushing you away."

Just saying the words, the closest she's ever come to telling him how she really feels, makes her feel like the ground has dropped out from underneath her. But instead of the sensation of falling, she feels suspended.

His hands are gentle on her face, and it amazes her how gentle, how careful he is when he touches her like this. She's seen him kill with those hands, knows how strong they are, but when it touches her it's like he's holding something precious. And he looks at her like she's precious, like he loves her, and she can hardly breathe in the face of it.

He kisses her again, tugs her off of the couch and into his lap, and she lets him cradle her against his body, wraps her legs around his waist and sighs into the kiss. "I'm never gonna hurt you, Tasha," he murmurs, threading his fingers through her hair. "I promise."

"I know," she whispers back, and she does know that. She's always known it; he's had her back from the moment he met her, when he didn't know if she would kill him the second he dropped his guard, and he's risked his own life to save hers in the same way that she's done for him.

"Do you trust me, Tasha?"

"I do," she says softly, and his lips curve up a little.

"Then will you trust me with this?"

He's touching her face, his body hot and solid against hers, and she's breathless and terrified and she _wants_ him, wants to let go, put herself completely in his hands. She's falling, but he'll catch her; he'll always be there to catch her.

"Yes," she breathes, and he clutches her tight.

In his bedroom, he undresses her slowly, reverently, and she tries not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. But his eyes are darkening as she's bared to him, and she wants him so badly she can taste it on the back of her tongue.

When she's naked, he strips off his shirt and puts his skin on hers. He's warm and solid, and she wraps her legs around his ribs automatically as he slips his arms underneath her to hold her close, and the feel of him leaves her breathless. He presses a kiss against her collarbone, another against her breastbone, trailing kisses down her body, and she sinks her hands into his thick hair.

"Is this okay?" he asks softly, pausing to kneel beside the bed and nudge her legs apart. "Do you want this?"

"Yes," she breathes, and she can't look at him, has to clench her eyes shut and bite her lip and fist her hands in the blanket in anticipation.

She gasps at the first touch of his mouth between her thighs, her hips instinctively tilting up into his open-mouthed kiss, and she feels the gust of his breath on her mound as he chuckles silently at her reaction. She wants to laugh at him, at how absurdly tense she is, but he's licking at her, long strokes of his tongue that make her toes curl.

Sliding his hands under her hips, he pulls her to the edge of the bed and buries his face between her legs, closing his lips around her clit and gently shaking his head back and forth, and Natasha thinks she's going to come unglued. The sound she makes doesn't sound familiar to her at all; it's a foreign noise, something needy and desperate, but it perfectly suits how she feels. He's taking her apart piece by piece, and she's shaking in his grip, barely able to process the pleasure rippling through her body.

He teases her, moving between her clit and her cunt and plucking at her nipples with his fingers until she's bucking against his mouth, shuddering and gasping for breath like a drowning woman. It's intense, the delicious sensation of his tongue and lips and stubbled chin against her sensitive flesh, and she decides that she does like it and that she wants to feel it over and over again.

But no matter how much she wants it, she just can't cross that line, can't relax enough to let herself come. It's right there, a hovering, shining thing that she can almost but not quite grasp. He stops and presses a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh when she lets out a frustrated whine.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart," he murmurs, stroking his hand over her stomach.

"I don't know," she moans; she's wound up tight like a spring, but she just can't get that coil to turn loose.

Clint gets to his feet and climbs onto the bed beside her, pulling her up so her legs are back on the mattress, and he curls around her, propping himself up on the arm that's wrapped underneath her shoulders. She reaches out to him, sinks her hands into his hair and pulls him down to kiss her. Her taste on his lips and tongue makes her shiver and kiss him even more hungrily, and she arches up against him when he cups her breast in his large hand, rubbing his thumb over her hard nipple.

Her breath leaves her in a rush when his hand glides over her stomach and between her thighs, fingers slipping in her wetness. She breaks away from the kiss to gasp in a breath, but he follows her lips. "Kiss me," he rumbles, and god, even the sound of his voice makes her hot; she wants to come with that low voice right in her ear.

She sucks on his tongue desperately, gripping his forearm as he begins rubbing tight circles against her clit. It's a little too fast, too hard for her, but when she squeezes his arm, he responds immediately. He lets her guide him, picking up on her cues, and it's so much more intense than when she touches herself like this.

He moans softly against her lips, tilting his head so he can kiss her more deeply, and even though she doesn't know how to consciously let go of her need for control, her body swiftly overrides her mind.

The kiss is broken, but it's because her back is arching and her head has fallen back, her mouth open on a cry that the tiny part of her that is still self-conscious thinks should be embarrassing. But it's not embarrassing; it's _glorious_ , all of the sensations curling through her body, and knowing that it's Clint who's making her feel it makes the pleasure even sharper, even more overwhelming.

He just holds her as she comes, whispering things she can't quite understand, his warm hand cupping her mound as she shudders and bucks against him. It's a little scary still, to let him take control of her body, but it's comforting, too, to relax slowly against the solidity of his body, to be held by him while her body wrings out a few last shivers.

When she tips her head to the side, he meets her lips in a soft kiss, one that that makes her roll to face him so she can slide her hands through his hair. "You okay?" he murmurs, brushing his nose against hers.

She whines a little when he takes his hand out from between her legs, which makes him crack a smile, and she's suddenly laughing. It's such a startling relief to give up control to him, like she can finally breathe freely now that she doesn't have to hold herself together. Clint looks a little surprised, but he hums his pleasure when she kisses him again, wrapping both arms around her and rolling so she's sprawled atop him.

"Yes," she breathes.

He brushes her hair back from her face with both hands, tugging her down for another kiss, and she thinks she could get drunk on his kisses. They steal her breath, send heat surging through her body, make her feel lightheaded, and she curses herself for being so afraid of letting go that she deprived herself of this for so long.

Her knees slip to either side of his hips, but the familiarity of position gives her pause. She's always ridden men; she can pin them down and control their pleasure, and she's suddenly uncertain at being on top of him. She doesn't want to control him. She wants to share this with him, doesn't want to go back to how things used to be.

But he sits up, taking her into his lap and nudging her to wrap her legs around him. "Like this?" he asks, his voice a low rumble. "I want to watch you come again, Tasha. You're so fucking beautiful when you come."

He's hot and hard and right up against her, and when she tilts her hips, the slick rasp of his cock against her clit makes her breath catch. She lifts herself up and slides down onto him, her stuttering gasp a counterpoint to his guttural groan. Bracing herself with her arms around his shoulders, she rolls her hips, dragging her clit against the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Clint moans again, his arms locking around her as his mouth seeks hers out again. "Oh god yes," he groans, pressing his face into the curve of her neck. "God, you feel so fucking good, Tash."

She bites her lip and lets her head fall back, using the strength in her thighs to rub against him. It's so good that it's nearly overwhelming, as if her body doesn't know what to do with all of that building pleasure when she's finding it with another person. She wants to come again, but some part of her won't let go, something buried deep in her unconscious that clings to her old ways, her old armor to keep everyone else out.

The feel of his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of her throat makes her shudder, and when he shifts his hold on her to her hips, guiding her movements into a rough grind against him, the last threads of control slip out of her grasp.

Her armor shatters into countless pieces, and she clings to him, his name slipping from her lips in a broken moan. His arms wrap back around her, holding her close, and she tries to bite back her cries but she’s overwhelmed again. She can't control the pleasure wracking her body any more than she can hold water in her hand; as much as she tries to catch it, it slips away, can't be contained.

He rolls her suddenly, putting her back on the bed, and she loops her legs around his waist, body running on autopilot because she's still shaking from the intensity of it. His mouth seeks hers out and plunders it as he thrusts into her; she threads her fingers through his hair, holding him in the kiss. A low groan rumbles through his chest, his hands clenching at her waist and shoulder as his body takes over, driving toward completion in her body.

"Tasha," he gasps, and she wraps herself around him, pressing every inch of their bodies together as he shudders and comes.

* * *

They lie together for a long time afterward, not speaking. At first he had moved to give her space, but she was surprised to realize that she didn't want it. So they lie together, gazing up at the ceiling, fingers entwined, and she likes the warmth of his hand on top of hers, the way the heat of his body radiates across the small space between them.

Clint's voice, pitched soft and low, finally breaks the silence. "We good?"

Natasha takes a deep breath, savoring the lingering scent of sex in the air, and releases it. "We're good," she whispers in reply, and he squeezes her hand.

This is far more intimate than anything she's ever felt, just sharing her space with him.

She likes it.


End file.
